Ballads and other Poems. By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Author of “Voices of the Night,” “Hyperion,” etc:
Second Edition. John Owen: Cambridge.

“Il y a à parier,” says Chamfort, “que toute idée publique, toute
convention recue, est une sottise, par elle a convenue au plus grand nombre.” — One would be safe in wagering that any
given public idea is erroneous, for it has been yielded to the clamor of the majority; — and this strictly philosophical, although
somewhat French assertion has especial bearing upon the whole race of what are termed maxims and popular proverbs; nine-tenths of which
are the quintessence of folly. One of the most deplorably false of them is the antique adage, De gustibus non est disputandum
— there should be no disputing about taste. Here the idea designed to be conveyed is that any one person has as just right to
consider his own taste the true, as has any one other — that taste itself, in short, is an arbitrary something, amenable to
no law, and measurable by no definite rules. It must be confessed, however, that the exceedingly vague and impotent treatises which are
alone extant, have much to answer for as regards confirming the general error. Not the least important service which, hereafter, mankind
will owe to Phrenology, may perhaps, be recognised in an analysis of the real principles, and a digest of the resulting laws of
taste. These principles, in fact, are as clearly traceable, and these laws as readily susceptible of system as are any whatever.

In the meantime, the inane adage above mentioned is in no respect more generally, more stupidly, and more
pertinaciously quoted than by the admirers of what is termed the “good old Pope,” or the “good old Goldsmith
school” of poetry, in reference to the bolder, more natural, and more ideal compositions of such authors as Coëtlogon
and Lamartine* in France; Herder, Körner, and Uhland in Germany; Brun and Baggesen in
Denmark; Bellman, Tegnér, and Nyberg† in Sweden; Keats, Shelley, Coleridge, and
Tennyson in England; Lowell and Longfellow in America. “De gustibus non,” say these “good-old-school”
fellows; and we have no doubt that their mental translation of the phrase is — “We pity your taste — we pity every
body’s taste but our own.”

It is our purpose, hereafter, when occasion shall be afforded us, to controvert in an article of some length, the
popular idea that the poets just mentioned owe to novelty, to trickeries of expression, — and to other meretricious effects, their
appreciation by certain readers:to demonstrate (for the matter is susceptible of demonstration) that such poetry and such alone
has fulfilled the legitimate office of the muse; has thoroughly satisfied an earnest and unquenchable desire existing in the heart of
man. In the present number of our Magazine we have left ourselves barely room to say a few random words of welcome to these
“Ballads,” by Longfellow, and to tender him, and all such as he, the homage of our most earnest love and admiration.

The volume before us (in whose outward appearance the keen “taste” of genius is evinced with nearly as much
precision as in its internal soul) includes, with several brief original pieces, a translation from the Swedish of Tegnér. In
attempting (what never should be attempted) a literal version of both the words and the metre of this poem, Professor Longfellow has
failed to do justice either to his author or himself. He has striven to do what no man ever did well and what, from the nature of
language itself, never can be well done. Unless, for example, we shall come to have an influx of spondees in our English
tongue, it will always be impossible to construct an English hexameter. Our spondees, or, we should say, our spondaic words, are rare.
In the Swedish they are nearly as abundant as in the Latin and Greek. We have only “compound,”
“context,” “footfall,” and a few other similar ones. This is the difficulty; and that it is
so will become evident upon reading “The Children of the Lord’s Supper,” where the sole readable verses are
those in which we meet with the rare spondaic dissyllables. We mean to say readable as Hexameters; for many of them will read
very well as mere English Dactylics with certain irregularities.

But within the narrow compass now left us we must not indulge in anything like critical comment. Our readers will be
better satisfied perhaps with a few brief extracts from the original poems of the volume — which we give for their rare
excellence, without pausing now to say in what particulars this excellence exists.

Some of these passages cannot be fully appreciated apart from the context — but we address those who have read
the book. Of the translations we have not spoken. It is but right to say, however, that “The Luck of Edenhall” is a far
finer poem, in every respect, than any of the original pieces. Nor would we have our previous observations misunderstood. Much as we
admire the genius of Mr. Longfellow, we are fully sensible of his many errors of affectation and imitation. His artistical skill is
great, and his ideality high. But his conception of the aims of poesy is all wrong; and this we shall prove at some future
day — to our own satisfaction, at least. His didactics are all out of place. He has written brilliant poems — by
accident; that is to say when permitting his genius to get the better of his conventional habit of thinking a habit deduced from German
study. We do not mean to say that a didactic moral may not be well made the under-current of a poetical thesis; but that it can
never be well put so obtrusively forth, as in the majority of his compositions. There is a young American who, with ideality not richer
than that of Longfellow, and with less artistical knowledge, has yet composed far truer poems, merely through the greater propriety of
his themes. We allude to James Russell Lowell; and in the number of this Magazine for last month, will be found a ballad entitled
“Rosaline,” affording an excellent exemplification of our meaning. This composition has unquestionably its defects, and the
very defects which are never perceptible in Mr. Longfellow — but we sincerely think that no American poem equals it in the
higher elements of song.

[[Footnotes]]

[The following footnotes appear at the bottom of page 189, column 1:]

* We allude here chiefly to the “David” of Coëtlogon, and only
to the“ Chûte d’un Ange ” of Lamartine.